


The Spy Who Loved Me

by yalublyutebya



Series: The Spy Who Loved Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Abuse, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prompt Fill, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's first love was a secret agent named Victor Trevor. He was sent away on a dangerous top secret mission and Sherlock swore to wait for him, even though the mission was expected to take several years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted on LJ.
> 
> Written in response to theimprobable1's Make Me A Monday (Week 26) prompt.

John has come to believe that silence is a dangerous thing: whether it’s the silence before the policeman tells him both of his parents are dead, killed in a car crash; or the silence before the Taliban attack that leaves him half-dead, bleeding out through the bullet wound in his shoulder; even the silence moments before Sherlock pulls the trigger and detonates Moriarty’s bomb. Silence is a powerful omen that John has learnt to fear. So when he returns home from the surgery to find 221b Baker Street shrouded in just the kind of ominous silence that sends tingles down his spine, John is instantly worried.    


He has experienced a number of different silences in his months in Baker Street, all of them subtly different. There is the silence that signals a strop of catastrophic proportions from his temperamental flatmate; this is occasionally brought on by a visit from Mycroft, but more often than not follows several days without a case. In this situation, he knows he will find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, looking petulant and refusing to speak and he knows by now that there is nothing he can do but wait for Sherlock to bring himself out of these black moods. This silence hangs over the flat for days on end and John escapes as often as he can until the storm passes.   


Then there is the silence that usually accompanies a case: a different kind of silence – much less malign than the kind that fills Baker Street when there is nothing to occupy Sherlock’s brilliant mind. With this kind of silence, John will find Sherlock standing by the bulletin board, hands pressed together, eyes flicking over the evidence – perfectly still as his mind races at a million miles an hour, searching for the one clue which will reveal everything. This is the kind of silence that it is safe to break and John will gently prod, question, theorise – and it will finally be broken by loud exclamations from Sherlock, often followed soon after by a whirlwind exit from the flat.   


Finally, the flat will descend into silence when Sherlock is completely focussed on some experiment or another and John will find him hunched over the table, beakers bubbling with god-only-knows-what or some part of the human anatomy on the table: the scientist in his element. These silences are only dangerous when Sherlock gets his hands on slightly more flammable – or even explosive – substances and John will stand at a safe distance, prepared for the worst. In Sherlock’s defence, only two experiments to date have led to an explosion, but John has learnt that caution pays when it comes to Sherlock.   


John is familiar with all of these silences (intimately) but the silence he finds when he returns home that evening is something new. He sees Sherlock’s coat hanging on the banister, so it’s not that other (peaceful) silence which means Sherlock is out. Everything in Baker Street seems to have come to a stop and all he can hear is his own breathing. It is unsettling enough that as soon as he has thrown off his coat, he races up the stairs, wondering what new, awful thing he will find today. John throws open the door to the living room of their flat – and comes to a startled stop. Sherlock is sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace, his attention absorbed in a single sheet of paper – what looks like a letter. John would think this was a new twist on the silence accompanying a case – if not for the look on Sherlock’s face. He looks absolutely devastated.    


“Sherlock?” he calls.   


Sherlock makes no sign that he has even noticed John’s presence and John takes a step forward. His mind is running through all the horrible things that would cause this look on Sherlock’s face. Has Mycroft done something? No. Maybe something has happened to Mrs. Hudson? That can’t be it.    


“Sherlock, what is it?” he finally asks, concern flooding his voice, “Moriarty?” It is the only thing he can think of that might have this effect on Sherlock.   


Sherlock looks up finally and there is something awful in his eyes as he shakes his head.   


“What is it then?”   


John’s gaze is drawn to the sheet of paper which must be the cause of Sherlock’s strange mood and as soon as Sherlock notices his gaze, he hands it to him silently. John takes it with a frown, not missing the fact that Sherlock’s hand is trembling. John turns the paper over and recognises the letter instantly – at least, the type of letter. He’s seen enough of these to know what he will find in the formal phrases of the letter: _We regret to inform you that so-and-so was killed in action. He was a brave soldier, fought for his country, our thoughts are with you at this time etc.etc._ Cold, empty sentiment. The symbol at the top of the paper is not military though and it takes John a moment to recognise it: Secret Service.   


His curiosity sufficiently peaked, John scans through the first few words and finds the name of the poor sod who’s been killed. _Victor Trevor._ It’s not a name he knows and he looks to Sherlock once more. Sherlock is staring at the floor, his fingers twisted together tightly.   


“Is this for a case?” John asks in confusion.   


Sherlock shakes his head again and John frowns.   


“Who’s Victor Trevor then?”   


Sherlock raises his head and there’s a twitch in his expression but before John can get his answer, he hears footsteps on the stairs behind him and Sherlock’s gaze narrows on the door. John turns just in time to see Mycroft reaching the door, but his attention is instantly drawn back to Sherlock, who rises to his feet and pushes past Mycroft before he is barely in the room.   


“I don’t want to see you,” Sherlock gets out, “Not now.”   


The door to Sherlock’s bedroom slams a moment later and John stares at it in astonishment for several long moments before turning his confused gaze on Mycroft.   


“Am I missing something?”   


Mycroft’s face is twisted with something like sympathy – it doesn’t sit quite right on him – and his eyes flick to the paper still in John’s hand.   


“Is that about Victor?”   


“Yes,” John answers. Of course Mycroft would know what was going on.   


“I just heard,” Mycroft explains, his forehead creasing into a frown as he looks towards Sherlock’s room, “I came as soon as I could.”   


“Okay, wait, who on earth is Victor Trevor?” John asks impatiently.   


Mycroft eyes him for a few moments before speaking up in reply.   


“If Sherlock hasn’t told you himself, it’s not really my place to say,” he murmurs, pausing in consideration before he continues, “Saying that, he may need you now more than ever.”   


Mycroft considers for another moment, leaving John hanging in anticipation, before he finally speaks up, his eyes flicking briefly towards Sherlock’s bedroom.   


“Victor Trevor was Sherlock’s partner.”   


John gives a little huff of surprise.   


“What, you’re telling me he used to have someone else to fetch his phone for him and –“ 

John freezes, the expression on Mycroft’s face making it clear he’s got it very wrong, “Oh. _Oh._ Not that kind of partner.”   


“No.”   


John’s head is spinning with this sudden – unexpected - revelation but before he can ask any of the many questions he suddenly has, Mycroft speaks up.   


“I have to go,” Mycroft says, “John, please, keep an eye on him.”   


This is the first time John has actually heard Mycroft sound like an older brother who is genuinely concerned for his little brother and it stills him, forces him to nod silently in answer to Mycroft’s plea.   


Mycroft throws one last torn look towards Sherlock’s bedroom and turns and leaves. John stands there in silence, the letter still clutched in his hand, his eyes fixed in bewilderment on Sherlock’s closed door. He doesn’t know what to do with the information at hand, too much – too unreal – for him to deal with. His feet draw him forward and he lingers outside Sherlock’s bedroom door, hand raised to knock – and then falling to his side once more as he lets out a sigh, turns and heads into the kitchen to make tea.   


On the other side of the door, Sherlock sits on his bed, a small metal box thrown open in front of him, its contents spilling over his sheets. He hasn’t looked at these pictures for two years. He has been so strong. And all for nothing, because Victor is gone. He doesn’t even notice the tears that fall from his eyes, trailing over his cheeks and dripping onto the picture he is clutching in his hand desperately. Victor is gone.   



	2. Chapter 2

By the age of twenty-two, in his final year at university, Sherlock had grown from an awkward, gangly teenager into a tall, striking young man. He was finally comfortable in himself, having grown used to towering over most people he knew and used to the attention his looks brought him. He had a large group of friends and he had excelled at every module on his Biochemistry course since his first year. He loved Oxford, loved university life, but was looking forward to the next step just as much: he had already got himself a job in a very prestigious laboratory and he was off to London in just a few months time. There was nothing he would change about his life. Except the one thing he kept trying to ignore.   


Sherlock had had a string of girlfriends in his time at university, each of them more beautiful than the next. All of them intelligent, witty, funny – in short, perfect women, the kind every man at Oxford was desperate to find, to settle down with, to marry. And that was just the problem. Not one of Sherlock’s relationships had lasted more than a few months. Things just never seemed to click the way they had for many of his circle and although Sherlock had parted amicably with each and every one of them, he felt guilty. There seemed to be something fundamentally wrong with him, something that stopped him from truly connecting with these girls, from falling in love with them.    


Part of the problem stemmed from the physical aspect of his relationships. Despite his growing comfort with his own body in general, when Sherlock was in the bedroom he became uncomfortable, awkward. He knew what to do, of course, and he hadn’t had any complaints, but he suspected it was more because the girls were too nice to say anything than because there was nothing wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on why it never worked out. He enjoyed sex: enjoyed the intimacy and the feeling of letting go, of shutting down his brain and letting sensation take over, but it was never quite what he imagined it might be. There were never fireworks.    


He became obsessed with other people’s relationships, wondered what it was that made them click, what it was he was missing. He didn’t make too many friends when he made blunt observations about certain people’s nocturnal activities (apparently the evidence wasn’t as obvious to everyone else as it was to him), but his friends laughed it off, telling him to mind his own business or reassuring him that he just hadn’t found the right girl yet. He tried to believe them, tried to convince himself that he was just a late bloomer, but he was never quite comfortable about the issue.   


*****   


Drama had been a surprising move for Sherlock, the consummate scientist – he had actually taken it up on a dare – but something about it called to him. He loved the thrill of being on the stage, of being able to be someone that _wasn’t him._ And according to his loyal fans (the girls in his circle) he was talented. It was something that took his mind off the equations and theories and all the other scraps of knowledge that filled his brain and he could spend whole nights learning a script back to front. Drama had played a big role in his development, in his understanding of himself and his awareness of his body; it had, in many ways, brought him out of his shell.   


The first time Sherlock met Victor Trevor was at a rehearsal for a joint production of _Romeo and Juliet_ between Sherlock’s college and Victor’s. Sherlock was the male lead, while Victor was playing Mercutio and at their first introduction, Sherlock could not deny that Victor was striking. He was as tall as Sherlock, although slightly broader, with auburn hair and startling blue eyes. And he was an impressive actor: every mannerism was perfect, every line spot-on and Sherlock found himself more and more absorbed in the other man, studying his every move. If he was ever a little confused about his newfound obsession, he never paid it much mind.   


The play was a roaring success and Sherlock enjoyed every minute of working with Victor. The other man had quickly become a welcome part of Sherlock’s circle in the weeks of rehearsals and the girls were, unsurprisingly, thrilled with the new addition to their group: Victor was fresh meat for their fantasies. They spent any number of hours wondering if he was single, what his type was, who his last girlfriend had been - but as much as they questioned Sherlock over and over (as the person who spent most time with Victor), Sherlock didn’t know the answer to their questions.   
  
Finally giving into their pestering, Sherlock mentioned it to the man himself during rehearsals for another play they were in together. Victor laughed quietly, threw a look around the room as if checking no-one was close by and bowed his head towards Sherlock as he replied in a hushed tone.

“Sherlock, I’m gay.”

Victor’s revelation unsettled Sherlock in a way he didn’t quite comprehend. His immediate reaction had been a shocked look, a widening of the eyes, but he had been tactful enough to leave it at that. Once he was away from Victor, he found himself alternating between angry, confused, bewildered. He found himself inexplicably annoyed that he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t suspected. He also found himself searching for visual clues, evidence to back up the confession, but he never found anything he could be completely certain about. His almost obsessive observation of Victor from that point on did however reveal one thing very quickly: Victor spent a lot of time looking at Sherlock. Sometimes he did so surreptitiously, perhaps believing that Sherlock would not see him; at other times, his regard was blatant and when Sherlock caught him he would hold Sherlock’s gaze until Sherlock grew embarrassed and looked away.

Sherlock didn’t know how to react to these looks, surreptitious or otherwise. If it had been a woman, he would have put on his most charming smile and engaged in a little lighthearted flirting. This was different. Obviously, ridiculously different. Victor’s attention made him nervous, as if he was waiting for something but he didn’t know what. He tried his best to act normally – and he genuinely enjoyed spending time with Victor – but sometimes there would be an undercurrent of awkward tension that made him uncomfortable around the other man. He still couldn’t bring himself to stop looking though.

*****  
  
Despite all the looking – and all the conflicted emotions it prompted in Sherlock – it was still weeks before things came to a head. One late afternoon Sherlock and Victor were sitting in Christchurch Meadow together, enjoying the last of the unusual spring warmth. They were lounging in the shade of a large tree on the banks of the Cherwell – in fact, they had been there since midday, talking about anything and everything, all awkwardness momentarily forgotten.

In a lull in their conversation, Sherlock looked up from the grass he was twining between his fingers to find Victor watching him with that intensity which always made him nervous. He cleared his throat and went to speak, to break the tension, but the words stuck in his throat and the next moment Victor was leaning over, hesitating just inches from Sherlock. His eyes flicked over Sherlock’s face, searching for something, and Sherlock unknowingly tilted his head back, just a fraction. That one small movement seemed to prompt Victor into action and he closed the distance between them to press his mouth to Sherlock’s.

It started out as a tentative kiss, but as soon as Sherlock had gotten over his surprise – and the unfamiliarity of kissing someone with stubble – his hand slid around Victor’s neck and drew him closer. He parted his mouth eagerly under Victor’s and their tongues tangled as the kiss grew more passionate. After just a few moments, Victor broke the kiss, moving back to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“I didn’t mean to force you. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you,” he said breathlessly. He was obviously giving Sherlock the chance to turn away, to stop this before it went any further. Sherlock had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He closed the distance between them once more, pressing his lips to Victor’s and laying one hand on Victor’s thigh.

It was like all the hours of agonising had finally been explained for Sherlock; all that time thinking there was something wrong with him, something that made him incapable of forming any kind of serious attachment to any of the girls he had dated. It was all explained away in the rush he felt at Victor’s touch, his kiss.

Wiser men might have taken a step back to evaluate this major lifestyle change – but not Sherlock. Unlike many a young man who had found himself questioning his sexuality, Sherlock did not hide away, did not try to prove his heterosexuality: he threw himself straight in at the deep end. When their surroundings started to encroach on them and it became very clear that the middle of Christchurch Meadow might not be the best place to continue their heated kisses, Sherlock followed Victor willingly to his room. He sat on the bed and when they kissed again, he drew Victor back with him, losing himself in the feel of the other man - in the strength in his shoulders, in the warmth of his mouth, the tangle of his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. 

They spent a heady night together that first night, filled with frenzied kisses and barely-restrained passion, finally released after weeks of sexual tension (because of course, Sherlock now recognised their sometimes awkward meetings for what they were). And for the first time in Sherlock’s love life, there were fireworks.


	3. Chapter 3

The silence at Baker Street stretches on through the evening and John is lost. He is used to caring, to trying to do something to help people in pain, and if this were anyone else, he would know what to do – but this is Sherlock. The rules are different and John never knows what to expect from his flatmate. This is a very good illustration of the point: Sherlock – the self-confessed sociopath – was in a relationship. With another human being. A man who is now dead and John knows Sherlock well enough by now to realise that the small signs of his distress – his trembling hands, that awful look in his eyes – speak louder than cries of grief. And John doesn’t know what to make of it.   


John makes enough dinner for both of them, even though he’s already pretty sure Sherlock won’t eat anything. He knocks tentatively on Sherlock’s door and calls his name. And to his surprise, the door opens a few seconds later and Sherlock appears, tell-tale smears marking his pale cheeks.   


“I made dinner, if you want any.”   


He knows he sounds absolutely ridiculous: _I know your old boyfriend’s dead but how about some spag bol to make it all better?_   


“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock answers in a rough vice, but he moves into the living room and John breathes a sigh of relief that he’s not shutting himself in his room again.   


Sherlock settles on the sofa with none of his usual extravagance, his arms wrapped almost defensively across his chest. He looks so small, so boyish and helpless that John wants to reach out for him, but he forces himself back to the kitchen. He’s pretty sure (as much as he can be with Sherlock) that Sherlock would not tolerate that kind of sympathy. John picks up his dinner and moves to his armchair and it’s almost as if everything is as it should be.   


One look at Sherlock tells him it is most definitely not. He is hunched in on himself and John can see his hands still trembling, even with how hard he has his fists clenched. Sherlock notices his look, of course, and quickly turns away, turning on the television pointedly. John knows what it looks like when someone is at the edge of their control – knows it too well – and he forces his gaze away, trying to keep up the illusion that everything is normal for as long as Sherlock needs him to.    
  


*****  


The first time Sherlock had sex with Victor was like a revelation. Despite the frenzied kisses and daring touches of their first night together, Victor had exercised almost-enviable self-control from then on, insisting that they take things slowly. He still seemed half-convinced that Sherlock would change his mind at any moment, push him away and declare this whole thing disgusting and below him. So he held out, allowing nothing more than a bit of mutual masturbation, no matter how much Sherlock writhed at his touch and begged him for more. No matter how much Sherlock kissed him and tried his best to seduce him, dragging his nails down the other man’s back and pressing their hips together. No matter how frustrated Sherlock grew and how many (fairly tame) names he called him. 

It seemed even Victor’s control had a limit though and that limit came the day a fellow – _male -_ biochemist asked Sherlock out on a date. Sherlock had blushed and excused himself politely, and when he mentioned it to Victor later that night, he joked that he hadn’t realised he was now sending out signals to Oxford’s gay population. 

“I mean, they can’t tell, can they?” Sherlock asked, genuinely intrigued, “Unless I’ve been sending out gay signals all this time.”

Victor laughed and pinned Sherlock to the bed.

“You don’t need to send out signals. You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, “Everyone wants you. You must have noticed.”

“I’d noticed the women, of course. Not the men.”

“I’m glad,” Victor said, “Less competition for me.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Sherlock replied quietly, arching into Victor’s mouth, hands sliding under the other man’s shirt.

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t find myself attracted to any other men. I thought I might, since we…well, since this started, but I don’t get any pleasure out of looking at other men. Except you.”

Victor pulled back, eyes shining, and Sherlock wondered briefly if he’d said a bit too much, given away too much about how strongly he was already starting to feel for Victor.

“I think I should probably be annoyed that you’ve even been looking, but I really can’t bring myself to care.”

Victor dipped his head and kissed Sherlock hungrily, one hand leaving a teasing trail just above Sherlock’s waistband. 

“Victor,” Sherlock growled against his mouth, arching into his touch, desperate for more.

Victor pulled back and grabbed Sherlock’s hands, pinning them to the bed either side of his head.

“Stay.”

Sherlock went to protest but his throat closed up a moment later when Victor slid smoothly down his chest and starting mouthing at the zip to Sherlock’s trousers.

“Oh fuck.”

He heard Victor say something that might have been ‘next time’ but then his trousers were being quickly undone and tugged down his legs along with his boxers. A moment later, warm breath was ghosting over him and he let out a gasp as Victor’s mouth closed around him.

“Oh God.”

One hand drifted to Victor’s shoulder as he tried to breathe as evenly as he could, tried to stop this from being over far too soon. Victor let out a moan against him and it was almost his undoing. 

“Oh God.”

Victor sped up his movements then and Sherlock was left trembling from the onslaught. He couldn’t stop himself from lacing the fingers of one hand in Victor’s hair, although he had to try much harder not to thrust upwards. The whole experience was so much more intense than it had ever been with the few girlfriends who had been willing to try – whether it was because of the wait, or Victor’s own skill, he was too mindless to tell. But all too soon he was struggling to breath, his thighs were trembling and finally, he let out a cry as he came. 

He came back down from his high to find Victor’s head resting against his thigh as he watched Sherlock warmly.

“You’re even more gorgeous like this, thoroughly debauched.”

Sherlock let out a laugh and urged him back up into a kiss, tasting himself on the other man’s tongue. He couldn’t remember feeling so lighthearted after sex before, or so completely at ease with the other person, and he kissed Victor harder, cupping his face in his hands – wishing he could imprint this moment on his brain and remember it forever. 


	4. Chapter 4

Coming out to his friends was not as painful as Sherlock had thought it might be and in fact, a number of them (mainly the girls) looked at him with a newfound understanding, as if they too now realised what had been missing before. And of course, they were already big fans of Victor and soon took to teasing Sherlock, asking him daring questions about Victor and certain parts of his anatomy.   
  
If he had had the choice, the news would have gone no further. He was quite happy to share this new relationship with his friends but he didn’t feel the need to tell anyone else, not just yet – and first and foremost in this list was his family. Of course, nothing ever worked that simply, especially when one’s brother was working his way up through the government and developing a more than substantial network of contacts.   
  
As usual, Sherlock received no warning of his brother’s impending visit and had reckoned on a few more weeks’ respite before Mummy forced her eldest son to check up on his brother (she had a nicer way of putting it, but this was effectively what it was). So, not expecting his brother for some time, Sherlock was less than happy to be interrupted in a passionate embrace with Victor by Mycroft’s low tones wishing him a good evening.   
  
Sherlock quickly untangled himself from Victor and faced off against his brother, feeling the blood rushing involuntarily to his face.   
  
“You must be Victor,” Mycroft said with a warm smile, reaching out and shaking hands.   
  
“And you are?” Victor asked in surprise, even as he took the other man’s hand.   
  
“Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brother.”   
  
Victor gave Sherlock a questioning look but at a nod from Sherlock made his excuses and left the two brothers alone.   
  
“Mummy will be upset, Sherlock.”   
  
Feeling more than usually frustrated with his brother, Sherlock threw himself into the nearest chair as he replied.   
  
“Have you been spying on me?”   
  
“Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, arching an eyebrow, “A friend of mine at the university mentioned that you had a new friend you were spending a lot of time with. I was intrigued. I didn’t realise you were quite so close, of course. Did you know his father is a high-ranking officer in the Navy?”   
  
“So you’ve been spying on him too?”   
  
“As I said, I was intrigued. I’m even more so now that I see the true nature of your relationship.”   
  
Sherlock didn’t even know where to start with his reply, his fury at his brother silencing him.   
  
“You look happy, though.”   
  
At this unexpected utterance, Sherlock’s eyes flew to his brother’s, expecting some sort of trick.     
  
“I suppose it makes sense now that you were never quite ready to settle with one of your previous girlfriends, however desirable the lady.”   
  
This sounded suspiciously like acceptance, something Sherlock had not expected from his somewhat staid older brother.   
  
“You said Mummy would be upset.”   
  
“Of course, that you decided to keep this from her.”   
  
Sherlock was stunned into silence and Mycroft said his goodbyes not long after, leaving Sherlock to run the conversation through in his mind again. He was sure he was missing something. Encounters with Mycroft were never that easy.   
  
Victor returned a few minutes later, peeking around the door to ask, “Is it safe?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Victor slipped into the room – this time locking the door behind him – and upon seeing Sherlock’s consternated expression, leant down and kissed him hard.   
  
When they lay together on Sherlock’s bed sometime later, Sherlock’s head resting against Victor’s shoulder as a calming hand brushed through his hair, Victor finally asked how the rest of the conversation with Mycroft had gone.    
  
“Surprisingly well,” Sherlock answered, “I think you’ll even be invited over for Easter dinner.”   
  
Victor laughed and pressed a kiss to his hair as they settled into a comfortable silence.   
  
*****   
  
Sherlock has maintained his silence for hours now and John has tried his best to keep up the illusion, but he feels this growing urge to do something, say something to draw Sherlock out of himself. He knows all too well what grief can do to a person if they hold it in (he didn’t cry for his parents for two long months). He doesn’t want to see that happen to Sherlock.   
  
So John does what any self-respecting man would do in this case – he goes for the bottle of whiskey stashed under his bed, for emergencies. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him when he returns and begins to search through the kitchen cupboards for two relatively clean glasses. He finally finds two and pours a drink for Sherlock and one for himself, before carrying them through to the living room.   
  
“I don’t drink,” Sherlock says as John hands him the glass.   
  
“In Afghanistan, when we’d had a bad day – when we’d lost people – we drank to their memory.”   
  
Sherlock gives him a long look and then turns his pale eyes on the glass, eyeing the contents warily. Finally, he lifts it to his mouth and downs most of it in one go.   
  
*****   
  
As the weeks passed, Sherlock grew more and more comfortable in his sexuality – and the sex just seemed to get better and better. The first time he was inside Victor he had almost shed tears at the sheer  wonder of it, the intimacy. And the feel of Victor inside him was something he was quickly growing addicted to: the rock of hips and the squeeze of hands, a sensual overload. But it wasn’t just the end result he revelled in; it was all the steps in between. He spent hours mapping every inch of Victor’s skin, learning every scar, every bump; memorising the feel of him, the taste of him.    
  
Victor made him feel like a god. Sherlock learnt all the ways to make him writhe, to make him beg, to make him twist his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and breath his name. And in the afterglow, Victor would pull him close and press kisses to his eyes, his cheeks; he would whisper words of adoration, of encouragement and wonderment, and soon enough, of love. And Sherlock returned the sentiment with every fibre of his being: after two months, he was more in love with Victor than he had been with any of his former girlfriends. He couldn’t imagine his life without Victor, and it soon became apparent he wouldn’t have to.   
  
Victor was studying the ever-popular Politics, Philosophy and Economics which he freely admitted had come about simply because he hadn’t known what to study and PPE was broad enough that it gave him plenty of room to manoeuvre. What he really wanted, and what he finally admitted to Sherlock after a number of weeks, was to work in government, and preferably in one of the intelligence services. The only thing holding him back was a fear (perhaps justified) that his sexuality might have a negative impact on his application. He had no doubt MI5 or MI6, whichever he chose to apply for, would soon find out and views towards homosexuality being what they were, he was doubtful of success.   
  
However, with some coaxing from Sherlock, Victor decided to try his luck with MI6 and they spent hours poring over the application forms together (there were five in total), formulating the perfect responses. It got sent off and everything went quiet for the next month, with Victor quickly assuming failure.   
  
But when Victor burst into Sherlock’s room one morning, brimming with excitement as he pulled Sherlock into a kiss, it was obvious there was only one possible reason for his excitement.   
  
“I’ve got an interview,” Victor breathed between kisses, his lips curling into a smile.    
  
And if Sherlock sensed his brother’s hand in the interviews and vetting and that final letter of acceptance that followed, he said nothing. Victor was happy and, most importantly, he would be coming to London. With Sherlock.  



	5. Chapter 5

John is starting to lose count of the glasses of whiskey he has drunk, which isn’t a good thing, but Sherlock is finally talking, which is.  
  
“Victor was… perfect,” Sherlock sighs, “He was the perfect spy. He was charming and so… He could make friends with anyone, just like that.”  
  
Sherlock is slurring his words, alcohol and emotion making him more open than ever, and John listens avidly.  
  
“He loved being a spy. I think he was born to do it. He…” His voice hitches in a broken laugh, before he continues, “He would make me watch Bond films with him for hours.”  
  
Sherlock is silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts, and John just watches him. He thinks Sherlock has pretty much forgotten he’s in the room now and he’s loath to do anything to change that. It’s good for Sherlock to talk and God, John can hear his affection in every single word out of his mouth.   
  
“He loved being sent out on assignments,” Sherlock starts up again, “He could never tell me where he’d been, of course, but I got quite good at guessing.”  
  
Sherlock falls silent again and he is smiling to himself, clearly lost in his memories. He doesn’t appear to notice the tear crawling down his cheek.  
  
*****  
  
“South America,” Sherlock murmured into Victor’s neck, breathing in his scent, making sure it was just as he remembered, “Somewhere close to the rainforest.”  
  
Victor laughed, his hand trailing over Sherlock’s spine.  
  
“You know I can’t tell you.”  
  
“I can still guess,” Sherlock said, brushing his mouth over the warm skin of Victor’s chest, “Well, I’d it’s slightly more educated than guessing. It’s observing, deducing.”  
  
Victor let out a moan as Sherlock’s mouth ghosted over his hip and his hands twisted in Sherlock’s hair.  
  
“I didn’t realise my boyfriend was a detective. Here was me thinking he was just a run-of-the-mill biochemist.”  
  
“I take offence to run-of-the-mill,” Sherlock breathed into Victor’s skin, his lips twitching into a smile.  
  
“I apologise. Far from run-of-the-mill.”  
  
Victor tugged him upwards, kissing him hungrily before moving his kisses to Sherlock’s neck, his collarbone.  
  
“Brilliant,” he whispered, his words like a caress against Sherlock’s skin, “Extraordinary.”  
  
This was always the best bit, when Victor came home and Sherlock could stop missing him, could get back to much more important business of loving him.  
  
*****  
  
Sherlock is crying properly now. At some point his words stuttered out and he broke down into sobs that seemed to rip from his chest and John is powerless to keep himself still, to stay in his chair and watch. He rushes to Sherlock’s side and draws him close and Sherlock sags against him, his sobs just as strong as before. At some point, they slip to the floor and John continues to hold Sherlock tightly, rocking him just as he might a child. He whispers to him, promises him that it will get better, it won’t always hurt this badly.  
  
It is a testament to Sherlock’s anguish that he doesn’t push John away, doesn’t tell him to stop all this emotional nonsense – as John is half-expecting any minute now. Sherlock continues to sob and he just sounds broken. It is one of the most awful things John has ever heard.   
  
He still has so many questions, so many things he wishes he knew about Victor Trevor – about Sherlock and Victor – but one thing is clear: Sherlock was (is?) in love with this man and his death has done what no criminal, what not even Moriarty has managed to do. It has destroyed Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Sherlock falls into an exhausted but fitful sleep against John’s shoulder but John doesn’t really want to leave him on the floor so he manages to wake Sherlock just enough to get him on his feet and guide him to his bed. He clears it as quickly as he can and then Sherlock drops onto it, curling himself around his duvet almost like a child and falling asleep once more.  
  
John goes to set down the things he salvaged from Sherlock’s bed and he freezes when he sees the photograph lying at the top of the small box. He plucks it out and brings it closer, studying it carefully.  
  
In the picture is a younger Sherlock in his graduation gown. He is sitting in a meadow, his gown spread out around his legs, his mortar board thrown carelessly to the side. He has his arm wrapped around another young man – also in graduation garb – with auburn hair and blue eyes. The other man is leaning in, his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear as if sharing a secret and he has a wide smile on his face. John knows this must be Victor Trevor and his eyes linger on the picture, on the joy he can read in every line of Sherlock’s body. And in Victor’s. They are clearly infatuated with one another and all John can wonder as he replaces the picture is, what went wrong? What could possibly have torn them apart?  
  
*****  
  
“You’re not going to believe this,” Victor called out, coming into the kitchen and resting his hands on Sherlock’s hips, tucking his chin into Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“You’ve turned straight?” Sherlock asked, fighting to control his smile.  
  
“When I get to come home to this?” Victor commented, his grip on Sherlock’s hips tightening, “I don’t think so.”  
  
“Flatterer,” Sherlock muttered, smiling as he turned to face Victor, “Well, what is it?”  
  
Victor smiled and brushed his hand over Sherlock’s hair before leaning in for a kiss. What had been intended as a quick kiss quickly escalated as Sherlock tugged his lover closer, one hand flattening against the small of his back even as Sherlock himself ended up pinned against the counter. Victor broke from his mouth and dipped his lips to the exposed skin of Sherlock’s neck, drawing a moan from Sherlock.  
  
“You’ve gone and distracted me now,” Victor murmured against his skin.  
  
“My sincerest apologies,” Sherlock said with mock seriousness, pressing himself against Victor ever so slightly, “Do go on.”  
  
Victor pulled back and took a moment to shake his head, eyes narrowing on Sherlock before he broke out into a soft smile, his excitement of a few moments ago recaptured.  
  
“I’ve been recommended for the Secret Service.”  
  
Sherlock froze, studying his lover.  
  
“Just like that?” he asked with a frown. He had grown quite practiced at identifying the signs of the many different ways Mycroft interfered in his life.  
  
“I was called up to the chief. He said they’d been really impressed with my work and they wanted to see what I could. So…”  
  
“So you’re joining the Secret Service?”  
  
“You don’t seem very happy,” Victor said, pulling back a little further to look at Sherlock, “What’s wrong?”  
  
“No, nothing. Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head and leaning in to press his forehead to Victor’s, “Just a shock. This is… it’s great.”  
  
He pressed a kiss to Victor’s temple.  
  
“And the best thing…” Victor whispered, drawing Sherlock closer, one hand twining in Sherlock’s hair, “The best thing is that they don’t need me to start for another month. Which means I can take some of that holiday I’ve built up and whisk my boyfriend away somewhere.”  
  
“Sounds like someone’s trying to bribe me,” Sherlock murmured, his lips brushing over Victor’s.  
  
“Is it working?”  
  
“Try harder.”  
  
*****  
  
Despite his happiness for Victor, Sherlock soon made his feelings about his brother’s interference quite clear to the man in question. It was the first time he had really let rip and vented his frustration at his brother and it would herald the start of a strained relationship between the two.   
  
But there was nothing to be done now. After just two years in MI6, Victor moved on to the Secret Service. His assignments grew longer, taking him away from Sherlock for longer periods at a time, and more dangerous, but Victor relished every minute of it.  



	6. Chapter 6

When John wakes the next morning, his head is throbbing and it takes a moment for him to remember why. Whiskey. With Sherlock. He sits up then, the memory of Sherlock so distraught twisting his stomach into knots. He really doesn’t know what to expect today.  
  
When John finally makes it downstairs, he finds Sherlock curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown, staring blindly at the ceiling.  
  
“Morning,” John says quietly.  
  
Sherlock remains silent but he turns his head to look at John and he looks – well, he looks awful. His eyes are puffy, bloodshot, and he looks tired. John wonders how long he’s been up.  
  
“About four hours,” Sherlock says (reading his mind as usual) and his voice is hoarse, rougher than John has ever heard it.  
  
That means Sherlock got about three hours’ sleep. No wonder he looks awful.  
  
“Tea?” John asks.  
  
“Please.”  
  
Sherlock has taken to staring out the window now and John takes him in for a few short moments before turning and going into the kitchen. He makes tea quietly and takes both cups through to the living room, handing one to Sherlock before dropping into a chair.   
  
They sit in silence drinking their tea and John can’t take his eyes of Sherlock. He has put up that thin veil of control again and he resolutely ignores John’s watchful gaze as he clutches the mug of tea so tightly his fingers are bright white. Seeing Sherlock in so much pain last night was awful, but somehow this quiet, intense grief is so much worse. John finishes his tea, washes his mug, and stands at the kitchen door for several long moments, desperately searching for something to say. Finally he gives in, tearing his gaze from Sherlock’s profile.  
  
“I’m going for a shower.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge his words and John forces himself away reluctantly. He showers and dresses and by the time he has made his way back downstairs Sherlock has disappeared. He hears faint noises from Sherlock’s bedroom though, so he doesn’t appear to have gone far.  
  
John is just sitting down with a medical journal and another cup of tea when he hears the front door and a moment later, footsteps on the stairs. He looks up just as Lestrade enters the room and John lays down the journal.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“John, hi. Is Sherlock in?”  
  
“New case?” John asks.  
  
“Yeah. We’ve got three dead bodies and a suicide note.”  
  
John glances towards the hallway, towards Sherlock’s bedroom.  
  
“Look, now’s not really a good time.”  
  
Lestrade looks surprised but before John can say anything, the door to Sherlock’s room opens and Sherlock appears, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt.  
  
“What have you got?” Sherlock asks Lestrade and John frowns.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock gives him a sharp look and turns back to the DI as he explains the situation.  
  
“Excellent,” Sherlock says after Lestrade has finished, although some of his usual enthusiasm is missing, “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”  
  
Lestrade throws a look at John, then nods at Sherlock before leaving them.  
  
“You don’t have to do this,” John says quietly.  
  
“I want to,” Sherlock replies, giving John a long look, and John knows better than to argue.  
  
*****  
  
The crime scene is as grizzly as expected and John hangs back as Sherlock gets stuck in, examining the bodies and muttering to himself.  
  
“Do we know who they are?” John asks Lestrade.  
  
“We’ve got a wallet for one of them,” Lestrade explains, beckoning to one of his sergeants, who comes forward with an evidence bag, “Mostly empty, but there’s a driving license.”  
  
The DI takes the proffered bag and slips the wallet out into his gloved hand, carefully opening it and slipping the small card out.  
  
“Name’s Victor Trevor,” he explains, passing the driving license to John.  
  
John freezes and he sees Sherlock’s head fly up, his eyes lock on the card held outstretched between Lestrade and John. Sherlock rises to his feet and strides over to them, snatching the card from Lestrade and examining it closely.  
  
John can clearly see the emotions that pass across Sherlock’s face as he looks at the card: disbelief, anguish, anger.  
  
“Is this some kind of joke?” he finally spits out, his icy gaze landing on Lestrade.  
  
“What?! What are you – ”  
  
Lestrade looks to John for some sort of explanation but Sherlock is talking again, his voice thick with emotion, his hand shaking as he turns to the room.  
  
“Is this some kind of sick joke?!” he repeats and several members of the forensics team - not to mention a few lingering PCs - give him bewildered looks, “Do you think this is funny?! Is this some awful trick to get back at me?”  
  
“Sherlock,” John calls softly, ignoring a look from Lestrade and stepping forward.  
  
His voice seems to get through to Sherlock and Sherlock sags, his shoulders visibly hunched as he turns and almost throws the card at Lestrade as he heads for the door. The room is left in stunned silence for several moments after Sherlock’s exit and Lestrade turns to John again.  
  
“What the hell was that?” he hisses.  
  
“I told you it wasn’t a good time,” John says and before Lestrade can question him further, he leaves the house. Sherlock is long gone and John reluctantly gets a cab back to Baker Street, hoping Sherlock will get himself home in one piece.  
  
*****  
  
It didn’t take a genius to realise that something big was coming. Victor was edgy and nervous in a way he had never been before and it was obvious he was keeping something from Sherlock as his (edited in the first place) explanations of his day got shorter and shorter. Time and time again, Sherlock would catch Victor watching him, clearly having an internal debate, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Victor finally got up the courage to tell him whatever it was he was hiding.  
  
Sherlock was astute enough to recognise all the signs, in the same way as he was quickly certain it wasn’t infidelity that Victor was hiding, nor was it a desire to end their relationship in any other way. If anything, he had become more affectionate, more passionate in the past weeks. That meant it had to be work. More specifically, a new mission. Something new, possibly more dangerous, maybe longer than before.   
  
Sherlock wasn’t blind to the clues: it had been eight weeks since Victor was last sent away, but Sherlock was not naïve enough to believe it was a respite. No, it was obviously all building up to this new mission. And when Victor started speaking Russian in his sleep, it became all too blindingly obvious.   
  
Of course, it made perfect sense. Victor’s grandfather, and namesake, had been in the Russian Army, had fled the country during the height of Stalin’s purges, but had never stopped loving his homeland. He had passed that love onto his grandson: he had taught him to speak Russian like a native, had taught him Russian history, and as soon as the Soviet Union had collapsed, had taken his grandson on yearly trips to the motherland. Sherlock hadn’t heard Victor speak Russian since an appearance in a Chekhov play put on by the Russian Department at university, and back then, the sudden immersion in the language had led to murmured Russian in bed (both asleep and awake). It was obvious now that Victor was immersing himself in the language again, and why else, if not for a new mission?   
  
It was another two weeks before Victor finally chose to tell Sherlock. Sherlock had expected him to broach the subject in the comfort of their bed, no doubt after some mind-blowing sex, at a time when Sherlock would be ever so slightly less coherent and, perhaps, easier to handle. Instead, Victor came home one evening and sat down at the table beside Sherlock, taking his hands and staring at him for a long time before finally taking a deep breath and speaking up.  
  
“I have to go away again.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Victor looked momentarily surprised by Sherlock’s answer but ploughed on.  
  
“It’s different this time.”  
  
“How long?” Sherlock asked. If he knew how long, it always made it easier to let Victor go in the first place.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
This silenced Sherlock and Victor sighed, leaning forward and cupping a hand around Sherlock’s jaw.  
  
“I… God, Sherlock, I wish there was some easy way to do this. I don’t know how long it’s going to be. Not this time. Which is why I…”  
  
Victor broke off, his tormented gaze locking with Sherlock’s.  
  
“I love you, you know that, don’t you?”  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock breathed, his chest getting painfully tighter by the minute. There was something awful in Victor’s eyes, in the way his fingers locked tightly around Sherlock’s as if he couldn’t bear to let him go.  
  
“I’m never going to stop loving you,” Victor insisted, his eyes boring into Sherlock’s, “You believe me, don’t you?”  
  
“Victor, what is it?” Sherlock asked, his voice coming out as little more than hoarse whisper.  
  
“I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone.”  
  
“You said that.”  
  
“It could be… months. Years, even.”  
  
The words hit Sherlock like a blow to the stomach but he carefully hid his reaction from Victor as best he could.  
  
“Which is why…” Victor took a deep breath and tugged Sherlock closer until Sherlock could feel his breath on his cheek, “Which is why I’m giving you the choice now.”  
  
“The choice?” Sherlock asked. He had never been so confused in his life.  
  
“The choice to walk away. To end this, now, and save us both the heartache.”  
  
Sherlock had been so horrified by the words he had stumbled to his feet, wide eyes looking down at Victor. Over five years together… and he felt like he was looking at a stranger.  
  
“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said, his hands trembling with all the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.  
  
“Sherlock,” Victor got out, his voice turning harder, desperate, as he got to his feet as well, “Are you listening to me? It could be years.”  
  
“I heard you,” Sherlock snapped, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes, turning his head away from Victor, but a moment later he felt hands on his shoulders, a tentative brush of lips against his hair.  
  
“Sherlock, I can’t ask you to wait for me,” Victor murmured, his voice broken, raw, “It’s not fair.”  
  
“Neither is you asking me to walk away.”  
  
“Sherlock, please.”  
  
“If you want to end this, you end it, but I’m not doing it to make you feel better,” Sherlock got out, all of the harshness in his tone cancelled out by the desperate way his hands locked onto Victor, holding him close.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“I’m not leaving you,” Sherlock said forcefully, his head pressed against Victor’s, “Never. I don’t care how long it takes.”  
  
“Sherlock,” Victor whispered desperately, hopefully.  
  
“I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you. I promise.”   



	7. Chapter 7

John has been home for close to an hour when Sherlock finally makes it back. Sherlock says nothing, going straight to his room and closing the door behind him. John lets out a sigh of relief and tries his best to focus on his blog once more, although he has been failing miserably when all he can think of is Sherlock. He gives up not much later and settles on the sofa, flicking absentmindedly through the channels.   
  
Lestrade turns up about twenty minutes later and John can’t help but frown when he sees the DI. Before he can even say anything, Lestrade speaks up, his hands on hips.   
  
“What the hell is going on?” he asks angrily, “I don’t invite Sherlock to crime scenes so he can flip out and start shouting nonsense at my people. Where is he? What the hell is he playing at?!”    
  
“It’s complicated.”   
  
“Yeah, I’ll bet it is. Where is he?”   
  
“He’s -“   
  
Before John can finish his sentence, Sherlock appears at the door but one look at him tells John there is something terribly wrong – something  else terribly wrong.   
  
“John,” he gets out, his voice strangely guttural, “I don’t feel well.”   
  
He wavers against the doorframe and John rushes forward but before he can catch him, he drops to the floor. As soon as he gets to him, John can see that he is trembling and his pupils are blown wide.   
  
“Oh bloody hell,” Lestrade gets out, lifting his phone to his ear, “I should have known.”   
  
“What?” John asks in bewilderment.   
  
“Check his bloody arms,” Lestrade says, his attention flicking back to the phone a moment later, “DI Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I need an ambulance now. 221b Baker Street.”   
  
Lestrade’s giving more details over the phone but John drowns him out, looking down at Sherlock’s trembling body. His eyelids keep fluttering but his eyes are fixed on John in a horrible, permanently-dazed look. Finally John’s brain catches up with Lestrade’s words and he rolls Sherlock’s loose left sleeve back – and freezes.   
  
“Oh God,” he whispers, his fingertips brushing the needle mark in the crease of Sherlock’s elbow.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock chokes out.   
  
“It’s alright,” John says, instantly switching into doctor mode, checking Sherlock’s pulse (way too high).   
  
“Is it an overdose?” Lestrade asks from behind him and John spares him a quick glance as he drops to a crouch on Sherlock’s other side.   
  
“I don’t think so,” John replies, “I don’t think he’d be conscious if it were.” He doesn’t want to say that Sherlock Holmes would know exactly how much he needed to take to kill himself. “It seems like just a bad reaction. How long has he been clean?”   
  
“A couple of years at least,” Lestrade says, worried eyes flicking over Sherlock, “But I’ve never seen him like this.”   
  
They both look up at the sound of sirens getting closer and Lestrade rises to his feet.   
  
“I have to go.”   
  
“What?!” John asks in surprise.   
  
“If I’m there later, I might have to arrest him,” he says, and throws another concerned look at Sherlock’s trembling form, “And I really don’t want to do that.”   
  
They share a look and John nods as Lestrade turns and leaves. The wait for the ambulance crew seems to stretch on endless minutes but in reality, it can’t be more than five after Lestrade’s departure before they are in the flat and John is stepping back as they move in, checking Sherlock’s vitals and quickly deciding to get him to a hospital as soon as possible.   
  
*****   
  
It was eight weeks after Victor had left when reality hit, hard, and Sherlock drank himself into a stupor for the first time. He only made it home because of Mycroft’s intervention – not that he would ever thank his brother for it – and it was a half a day before he recovered.   
  
He did it again two weeks later. It was Victor’s birthday and despite Mycroft’s attempts at distraction, Sherlock had not forgotten. That time it took most of the next day for him to recover.   
  
Four months after Victor left, Sherlock tried marijuana for the first time. It made him paranoid, angry, and more upset than he had been in weeks. It was not an experience he was willing to repeat so he returned, temporarily, to alcohol.   
  
Eight months after Victor left, Sherlock snorted cocaine for the first time. He disliked the way his nose ran for several hours afterwards but the high it gave him was more than worth the slight discomfort. He lay on the sofa in the middle of a party a colleague had invited him to and smiled, for the first time in eight months. When he closed his eyes, he could feel Victor beside him, could hear his voice, could see every little detail of his face – details he had worried he was forgetting far too quickly.    
  
Two weeks later he moved onto injectable cocaine – a much quicker rush, none of the unpleasantness of snorting, and something helplessly  poetic about the experience. The high was the same as all the other times: he could see Victor behind his eyes, feel him, breathe him in. It was heaven.    
  
A month later, he was arrested – along with several other attendees at that particular party - by a diligent sergeant called Lestrade. He was held overnight but let go with a caution the next morning, no doubt thanks to Mycroft’s intervention.   
  
Mycroft attempted to send him to a detox clinic not long after that – one of several unsuccessful attempts – but it wasn’t long before Sherlock was home and shooting up again. Reality started to lose all its appeal and it wasn’t long before Sherlock lost his job. It was worth it, for those moments when he could escape inside his own head and  remember.    
  
After his first accidental overdose, Mycroft had him sent to a clinic by force, for all the good that it did. Sherlock was out in a day and back in a holding cell at Scotland Yard a day after that. He was threatened with eviction but somehow the threat never came to fruition and Sherlock never saw his landlord afterwards, where before he had been a frequent visitor to the building. He knew Mycroft was behind it all but he was too busy living inside his own head, inside his own memories, to care.   
  
His second accidental overdose happened to coincide with his third arrest and he woke in the hospital to find himself handcuffed to the bed whilst the same sergeant from before, Lestrade, sat looking bored at his bedside. While he picked his way free of his handcuffs – a trick he had, incidentally, learnt from Victor some years before – he picked apart the various details of the sergeant’s life that he could guess from clues in his clothing, behaviour and demeanour. When he came to the girlfriend who was soon going to receive a surprise proposal, he was promptly told to piss off and his handcuffs were refastened. He smiled, because he had seen that the sergeant was impressed, despite his attempts to hide it.   
  
A year later, when Sherlock was approached by the familiar sergeant – recently promoted to Inspector and married to boot – he had been wary about the request made of him.   
  
“I just want you to take a look at something – someone - for me. I remember the way you could tell everything about me with a look. I want to see if you can do the same with a criminal.”   
  
“And why would I do that?”   
  
“Well, I might be tempted to overlook the little bottle you’ve just stuffed in your coat pocket.”   
  
Sherlock had regarded the Inspector with interest, his fingers flexing around the bottle of cocaine he had indeed just secreted in his pocket. An hour later, he was in Scotland Yard, examining a large-built man from behind a wall of safety glass. And God, it was so obvious he’d just murdered his girlfriend – couldn’t they see all the tiny clues? Apparently, they couldn’t, but when Sherlock pointed them out, one by one, Lestrade sent officers off to collect the evidence and sat back with a smile as he watched Sherlock.   
  
“There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”   
  
Surprisingly, it hadn’t been. Sherlock found himself called upon on several more occasions after that and each time, it became easier to read the clues people left for him to see. When he was really absorbed, he could even forget, just for a few minutes, about Victor and about the aching feeling in his chest that still refused to go away after all this time.    
  
His new role as a consultant of sorts to Scotland Yard’s finest didn’t stop him from resorting to cocaine when it all became too much to bear, but finally Lestrade presented him with an ultimatum: the drugs or the work. He knew which one Victor would prefer to find on his return so Sherlock did the only thing he could: he got himself clean, one painful step at a time. And in the absence of his lover, he let himself become attached,  married , to his work. **  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**** When Sherlock finally comes round, John is so relieved he thinks he might genuinely throw up. It has been a tense few hours since the dramatic ride to the hospital and it is at times like this when John wishes he really wasn’t a doctor. Where other people would have looked and seen chaos in the paramedics’ movements, John  knew . He knew exactly what they are doing, how close to crashing Sherlock was and it was unbearable. As soon as they reached the hospital, Sherlock had been whisked away and quickly,  thankfully,  stabilised. He has been lying in this bed, silent and still, hooked up to an IV, for a couple of hours now and John hasn’t moved an inch since he took up his perch beside his friend’s bed. Mycroft paid a brief visit, his expression more drawn than John had ever seen it, and was gone again in no time at all, leaving John to his silent vigil.    
  
Finally, though, finally Sherlock begins to stir and when his eyes flutter open, John feels a rush of relief, and then he doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh or punch Sherlock in the face.   
  
“John,” Sherlock breathes, his voice tired, slurred from the strain.   
  
“Thank God you’re awake,” John says, leaning closer, “How are you feeling?”   
  
It’s a pretty stupid question, but for once Sherlock does not comment.   
  
“I’m sorry.”   
  
“What are you apologising to me for?”    
  
Sherlock looks surprised, then pained, but before he can speak up, John rests a hand over his.   
  
“It’s fine.”   
  
Sherlock watches him silently, his eyes no longer blown wide and unfocused with the drugs.   
  
“You know, when my parents died, I drank. A lot.”   
  
“Did it help?” Sherlock asks, the tiniest twist at the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.   
  
“No. And I regretted it afterwards, a hell of a lot.”   
  
“Harry,” Sherlock says, his eyes falling closed again, “Of course.”   
  
And yes, of course Sherlock is still very much  Sherlock , even mere hours after an almost fatal reaction to cocaine.   
  
“We both drank. But I managed to stop myself, eventually. Joined up, found something to do with my life that didn’t involve drinking myself to sleep every night.”   
  
Sherlock hums in understanding and his eyes flicker open again, his gaze disarmingly vulnerable.   
  
“I didn’t mean to… That is to say, I didn’t expect –“   
  
“It was a bad reaction,” John says, “It can happen at any time, even if you’re the most experienced drug-user.” He frowns a little at his own words because he still doesn’t know all the ins and outs of Sherlock’s drug habit, but he wonders about it too often for his own good.   
  
“I can’t bear it, John,” Sherlock whispers and John tightens his hold on Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock closes his eyes in something like embarrassment.   
  
“It’ll get easier,” John promises, although he knows it’s an uphill struggle.   
  
“I dreamt of him last night,” Sherlock breathes, “I dreamt of him being killed.”   
  
That explains the lack of sleep, John thinks to himself.   
  
“I saw his face on every dead body I’ve ever looked at.”   
  
John feels the shiver run through Sherlock and tries not to picture all the gruesome deaths he himself has seen in the few months he has known Sherlock.   
  
“I can’t promise that will go away,” John says quietly. He knows all to well how hard it is to rid yourself of those kinds of nightmares.   
  
Sherlock lets out a hitched breath, his face creasing with emotion, but he calms himself almost instantly, his fingers tightening in a death grip around John’s.   
  
“The man, at Lestrade’s crime scene.”   
  
John had almost forgotten in the ensuing drama but now he remembers the man with a driving license proclaiming him to be Victor Trevor, remembers Sherlock’s anguish. John waits a painfully long time for Sherlock to continue, and when he does, he says only one word.   
  
“Moriarty.”   
  
“Moriarty?!” John echoes and yes, of course Moriarty. He had promised to burn the heart out of Sherlock and what better way then to taunt him with the death of his lover. John should have seen it straight away.   
  
“Do you think he’ll make another move?” John asks warily. The swimming pool doesn’t seem so long ago now and he can practically feel the ache in every bone of his body as the bomb had ripped the place apart. He and Sherlock had only survived because they had been thrown into the pool itself, sheltered from much of the debris. They hadn’t walked away completely unscathed though – in fact, thanks to a damaged knee, John hadn’t been able to walk away at all.   
  
“He’s taunting me,” Sherlock whispers, “Somehow he found out and I have no doubt he’ll use it to his advantage in any way he can.”   
  
John can’t help the little shiver that tracks down his spine.    
  
*****   
  
Sherlock is released from hospital the next day and although they spend the next few days on edge, they see no sign of Moriarty. The days stretch into weeks and it seems that one little taunt was all, at least for the time being. Sherlock hides himself away in the flat, refusing to take cases, but for once John is glad: Sherlock needs this time to grieve, to come to terms with Victor’s death. There are a few awful moments when John looks at his friend and sees him on the verge of breakdown, and he has lost count of the number of nights he is woken from his nightmares by the sounds of Sherlock in distress – sometimes from his own nightmares, sometimes simply from the weight of his memories. There is even one truly awful day and after Sherlock has torn their flat apart in a rage – provoked by God only knows what - and finally dropped to the floor and cried himself hoarse, he explains that it would have been Victor’s thirty-fifth birthday. John holds him close and says nothing, lets his friend cry until he has no tears left to cry and remains silent when Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and flees to his bedroom.    
  
Slowly, though, things seem to get better. John knows there is still a long way to go but Sherlock doesn’t look quite as tormented as he did those first few weeks and he finally starts to take cases again. Lestrade’s men keep their distance even more than before, seemingly as a result of what many are whispering was a nervous breakdown in the middle of a crime scene and, combined with the idea that Sherlock is indeed some kind of psychopath, it serves to keep them quiet, civil – and always wary. Lestrade is the only one who has some idea of the truth after John told him some vague details of the situation, but he continues to treat Sherlock with the same faint consternation and mild amusement he always has. Sherlock returns to his brilliant, acerbic self and sometimes John forgets what it was like to have this man cry himself to sleep in John’s arms.    
  
His relationship with Sherlock is closer than ever – not surprising after everything they have shared – and if it sometimes strays past the boundaries of a normal platonic relationship, John doesn’t think much of it. Sherlock has become very tactile since his drug-induced near-death, especially when they are at home alone: he will catch hold of John’s wrist to get his attention and keep hold of it for longer than necessary; he will sit beside John on the sofa, close enough that their arms and legs brush whenever either of them moves; he will touch his hand to John’s shoulder when he passes John at the table. It’s not a completely unnatural reaction to grief, and to his own near-death, so John takes it in his stride, even though he had never expected it from Sherlock. If anything, he feels privileged, to have seen past that carefully guarded exterior – to be trusted by Sherlock, even when he is at his most vulnerable.    
  
He doesn’t even question it the three times he wakes in the middle of the night to find Sherlock curled up in his bed next to him. He can understand the need for closeness and Sherlock is never going to just  ask. When he finds himself reacting to the warmth of Sherlock’s body next to his and waking in the morning with an uncomfortable erection, he shrugs it off and quickly leaves the bed. He is a man, after all, and it’s been some time since he shared his bed with someone else. Sherlock says nothing when John wakes him briefly to let him know he is leaving for work and when he gets home his bed is, surprisingly, made up to military standards. Sherlock says nothing about those three incidents and soon enough, it stops happening as Sherlock visibly regains some of his lost liveliness.   
  
Needless to say, John has never been the detective in this partnership. He has a fairly good understanding of people, but in the end he will never be able to read them the way Sherlock can. Which is why, when Sherlock pins him to the wall and kisses him, he is completely dumbfounded. **  
**


	9. Chapter 9

John can hardly breathe. He hasn’t run like that in some weeks and at the same time, he is laughing when he has breath to because this is such a typical Sherlock situation. He leans against the wall, trying to catch his breath, and it is only then that he realises Sherlock is watching him intently.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock says nothing but in one swift move, he steps forwards, presses John’s shoulders against the wall with both hands, and kisses him. John freezes but even through his complete and utter shock, he can feel his body reacting to Sherlock’s touch, to the feel of his lips and god, the brush of his tongue against John’s.

John pushes him away and just stares, mouth open, eyes wide. Sherlock says nothing and for a moment, he looks so completely lost that John has to catch his breath all over again.

“Sherlock?” he gets out, when he finally finds his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says quickly, already moving away, “I misunderstood. I-“

“You – what?! What do you mean, you misunderstood? Sherlock!”

His final desperate call halts Sherlock at the door of his bedroom and when he finally catches up, Sherlock turns to him and gives him a scared, vulnerable look.

“John, I – I apologise. Can we just forget it?” he asks quietly.

“You kissed me,” John murmurs, still a little awestruck, and he doesn’t miss the blush it prompts in Sherlock.

“I was momentarily overcome. Please forgive me.”

It is this sudden wordiness that finally gets through to John, convinces him that something pretty momentous has just happened, that Sherlock had not made a mistake. And reminds him just who he’s talking to – and everything they’ve gone through in the last couple of months.

“Sherlock, sometimes… sometimes when people lose someone they care about, they crave closeness. Physical closeness. And sometimes that can lead to them… developing feelings for people they’re close with.”

Somehow, the heat of Sherlock’s unimpressed gaze makes him feel like he’s the one who has just done something quite embarrassing and by the time he finishes speaking, he is flushed pink.

“Thank you for that, _doctor_ ,” Sherlock says sarcastically.

“Sherlock.”

“If you’re quite done?”

Sherlock doesn’t give him time to answer and shuts the door on John’s face, and if John didn’t know Sherlock quite as well as he does, he would be insulted. He’s not, and if anything, he’s faintly amused. He knows they might have to sit down and talk about this properly at some point, but for now he’s content to let Sherlock hide away in his room. He makes himself a nice cup of tea, sits down in his chair and finds some entertaining rubbish to watch on the television, and forces himself not to relive the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth against his.

*****

John’s more than a little drunk and at that delightfully merry stage where he is amused by everything. It hasn’t been a bad birthday, all in all. He’d been in Afghanistan for the last, which he doesn’t want to remember, and he’s quite happy to still be the right side of forty, even if he’s getting closer by the year. And despite all John’s predictions, Sherlock has somehow resisted getting them dragged into a case which means John has not been forced to spend his birthday rooting around the contents of a skip, or chasing a criminal, or getting his hands dirty in any fashion. Combine that with a surprisingly good meal at a new Indian restaurant Sherlock had discovered, a few pints with some people from work and a few of the Yarders, and yes, not a bad birthday at all.

He knows when he’s hit his limit though (knows too well) and he takes his leave just after midnight, sobering up a little in the fresh air as he and Sherlock make their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock has been unusually quiet since they got to the pub, but equally, he hasn’t offended anyone enough to get himself punched so it’s not all bad. John lets Sherlock unlock the door, because he may have sobered up a bit but his coordination is still off, and they make their way quietly up the stairs to the flat.

John slides onto the sofa and closes his eyes with a wide grin, already feeling himself succumbing to sleep.

“You don’t want to sleep there.”

Sherlock’s low voice wakes him and he smiles even wider as Sherlock eyes him with amusement.

“My bed is far too far away,” John pronounces, and lets out a little giggle.

Sherlock smiles, hides it quickly, and takes hold of his wrists, pulling him to his feet.

“Come on then.”

He says nothing, lets Sherlock lead him out of the room with an arm around his waist, swaying slightly into Sherlock’s side with every step. It takes him a few long moments to notice that he’s not being led upstairs, that he is already in Sherlock’s room and Sherlock is lowering him to the bed. He doesn’t argue, because the bed feels like heaven as soon as Sherlock deposits him and he smiles to himself as his eyes flutter sleepily.

“You’ll try anything to get me into bed,” he says, chuckling at his own joke.

Sherlock pauses for a brief moment but then he kneels and slides John’s shoes off, before pulling him into a sitting position just long enough to coax him out of his jacket.  
John collapses back onto the bed when Sherlock’s done and curls a hand into the soft pillow.

“Smells like you,” he murmurs, burying his nose in the fabric.

“Unsurprising,” Sherlock replies and John can hear the amusement in his tone even with the pleasant haze of his drunkenness.

He opens his eyes to find Sherlock watching him with a smile and there is something in his eyes, something that John can’t name – but it looks vaguely familiar. He suddenly finds himself curious, for all that they haven’t mentioned the kiss in the week that has passed.

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock says calmly, pulling the blankets over him.

John has just enough coordination to catch Sherlock’s hand as he moves to pull away and Sherlock stills at his touch.

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Kiss me again.”

There is a flicker in Sherlock’s expression and then he straightens, easily dislodging John’s grip on his hand.

“Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock switches off the light and plunges the room into darkness as he pulls the door closed behind him. John is momentarily peeved, but soon forgets it as he falls into a heavy sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

****Something is building below the surface, despite all their attempts to ignore it, despite all John’s attempts to persuade himself that he is not feeling what he thinks he is, that he is not attracted to his friend. And it’s all going well, until Sherlock almost drowns in the Thames and John has to resuscitate him and by the time they get home, dripping wet and shivering, they are so shaken that it only takes one look to dissolve weeks of self-restraint.

John closes the space between them in three large strides and he’s got his hands twisted in Sherlock’s hair, and he’s pulling him down but Sherlock is already meeting him halfway and they collide. Sherlock’s hands lock on John’s arms, hold him close as they kiss, mouths moving together, tongues sliding over one another. It’s glorious. John lets out a moan deep in his throat, tugs Sherlock impossibly closer. It’s been a while since he’s wanted anyone this much, much longer since that person was another man, but he doesn’t stop to consider for one moment because Sherlock has insinuated one hand under his shirt and John’s skin is on fire. They hit the wall and part involuntarily and when John’s eyes flutter open, Sherlock gaze is burning into him.

He pulls away and he sees Sherlock’s expression cloud, but before he can get the wrong impression, John takes his hand and leads him to the nearest bedroom. He tackles Sherlock to the bed and Sherlock groans even as he pulls him close, long-fingered hands tugging at his clothes. John leans over him, smears his mouth against his neck, against his jaw.

“John,” Sherlock breathes against his skin, arching into him, hands trailing over his back.

John kisses him again, all desperation and passion, and tries to get his freezing hands to cooperate long enough to undo the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock gives a sharp intake of breath when he succeeds and John’s eyes flick to his – and John freezes. He’s obviously been around Sherlock for too long, because the flicker of hesitation in Sherlock’s expression is gone in a flash, but he still sees it and it is enough. John groans and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s collarbone, trying to even out his breathing.

“Oh God, Sherlock.”

“John?”

Sherlock’s hands are still pressed to his back, but as John fails to move, his touch falters and finally comes to a halt.

“How long has it been for you?” John asks, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

Sherlock freezes underneath him and there is a moment when John knows he is considering a lie – but finally he whispers his answer.

“Six years.”

“Oh God.”

It hits John like a blow to the solar plexus and it doesn’t take a genius to hear the unspoken: Not since Victor. He is suddenly very aware of every point of contact between his body and Sherlock’s and he forces himself up, away.

“I can’t.”

It’s all John can get out.

“John?”

John kneels at Sherlock’s feet, looks down at the body sprawled under his, and it takes a supreme effort of will not to return to his previous position. Sherlock looks utterly enticing, all long limbs, pale skin, wild hair. John was an idiot to think he could pretend this wasn’t what he wanted.

“John?” Sherlock says again, something uncertain in his tone, and it draws John’s eyes back to his.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I – I can’t do this.”

Sherlock frowns, pushes himself up on his hands, his shirt falling open in a distracting manner.

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, his voice suddenly all hard edges and venom.

“You know why not.”

“I’m not fragile, I won’t break.”

John wants to remind him of the temper tantrum of only a few weeks ago, of how he had collapsed in tears in the middle of the living room – wants to tell him that yes, he _is_ fragile. Before he can say anything though, Sherlock is shifting, moving forward. John doesn’t fight as long hands settle on either side of his face and pull him close, and he closes his eyes as Sherlock presses his forehead against John’s.

“John, I need this. I need you.”

“It’s too soon.”

“According to whom?”

“Sherlock,” he breathes: a warning, a plea.

“Victor is dead,” Sherlock says simply, “He’s dead and he’s not coming back. I… I waited for six years and he’s never coming back.”

There is a pause and John tries to fathom just what Sherlock has been through, tries to understand the kind of deep feeling that would make a man wait for six years – and the agony of finding out that your lover was never coming back. It makes him breathless just to think of it.

“I can’t keep living my life like this,” Sherlock whispers, drawing John’s attention once more, “It’s not enough.”

Sherlock is pressing tiny kisses to John’s temple now and John feels the pull in Sherlock’s voice, in his touch. It would be all too easy to give in.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” John protests.

Sherlock sits back, hands still cradling John’s face, and looks at him. John shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny, but doesn’t move.

“You think it’s grief,” Sherlock says slowly, “You think I’ll change my mind.”

John just shrugs, because it’s mostly true. And God help him, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he lets himself get caught up in Sherlock, only to be cast aside again.

“You know,” Sherlock starts, and he’s smiling now, hands lowering to John’s shoulders, “I believe it’s customary to at least have sex first, and then start regretting it.”

John laughs, because Sherlock always finds new ways to surprise him, and because it helps block out the image of Sherlock writhing underneath him.

“Seriously, though, John,” Sherlock says, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “I want you. I wanted you even before. But I’ve managed to ignore that kind of desire for a long time now, and I didn’t intend to give in.”

“And now?”

Sherlock fixes that piercing look on him, the one that strips him bare, and John feels his body react with anticipation.

“I’ve been alone for a very long time, and it was all for nothing. I have to move on,” he says insistently, his fingers digging into John’s shoulders now, “Otherwise I might as well have been the dead one.”

His words seem to take all the energy out of him and he just stares at John for a very long time.

“Do you understand, John?” he asks pleadingly.

In answer, John reaches out and brushes a hand over his cheek.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

Sherlock gives him a long look and then shifts forwards again and with the hand on his cheek, John guides Sherlock’s lips to his. John kisses him once, twice – butterfly kisses that tease and tantalise, but he’s not going to rush this. He cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him again, opening his mouth and locking their mouths together. The clawing desire is gone now, settled into something softer, something tender, and John could stay like this forever. Except he can feel the cold seeping into his bones now, can feel Sherlock shivering against him. He pulls away but stays close, holds Sherlock’s gaze.

“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to take it slowly. Okay?”

Sherlock nods, silent, and John smiles and brushes a hand over his hair.

“Now, first things first: we both need to get out of these wet clothes and get warm again. And you might want to think about stripping your bed.”

Sherlock turns with him to survey the damp puddle now staining his bedding and turns back with a soft smile.

“Okay.”


	11. Chapter 11

Being in a relationship with Sherlock is a lot like everything else John does with Sherlock: mad, dangerous, and not necessarily good for John’s mental health. And just like everything else, it is addictive,  Sherlock  is addictive. For all that John is trying to force some kind of sense into this relationship, to make sure they’re both  sure before diving in headfirst, it is too easy now. He has lost count of the number of times they’ve tumbled into bed together, mouths locked in messy kisses, hands twisting in clothing. And because he doesn’t know what’s good for him, it is  never Sherlock who stops, who forces them to calm down, to cover up tempting skin. No, as always John has to be the sensible one, and sometimes he really hates it. Sometimes he would give anything to silence the little voice in his head that tells him he really needs to stop,  now , because he’s rutting against Sherlock’s leg and Sherlock is making the most delicious noises under him and it would be so easy to just -   
  
It’s usually about this point when John’s moral compass reasserts itself and he will tear himself away from Sherlock’s all-too-willing embrace. And Sherlock, the smug bastard, will just give him a knowing smile. And he will stretch, all fake innocence, and let his shirt fall apart, revealing too much pale, smooth skin and trousers drawn tight over his arousal. And in a scene played out many times over, John will glare at him and throw the bedsheets over him to cover him up and Sherlock will laugh, but he will give in. He will disappear, either to his own room or the bathroom, and will emerge five minutes later in pajamas and give John a pointed look as he slips back under the covers.    
  
When John is calmer, he too will slip into pajamas - he’d made the mistake of sleeping next to Sherlock in just boxers once, and he wasn’t going to let that happen again - and he will slide in next to Sherlock. And in that moment, some sort of switch will flip and Sherlock will be all soft and pliant and he will curl up against John’s chest and tuck his head under John’s chin, all smugness, all defensiveness vanishing. As much as John  loves kissing Sherlock, loves the feel of that lean body pressed against his and the feel of hands clutching at his shoulders, hair, back, he loves this even more: loves it when Sherlock finally lets the mask slip away. He is so fragile, so vulnerable in these moments and John may be getting soft in his old age, but there is something incredibly satisfying about having Sherlock in his arms and it makes his heart swell in ways he has long forgotten.    
  
He’s an idiot. He knows this. He’s gone and fallen in love with his best friend - a self-proclaimed sociopath, no less. But he knows now that the sociopath mask is just another defence mechanism employed by Sherlock to keep people at bay - and a very effective one too. It stops people from getting close, stopped John himself from getting too close; it stops people from seeing the weaknesses that lie just under the surface. And John wonders now, in light of everything he has learned about Sherlock, if it was also a way of deflecting unwanted attention. Sherlock had promised himself to someone and if he was cruel and brash and rude, no-one would be tempted - including Sherlock himself. It is exactly why he claims to be married to work, why he pretends at something like asexuality.   
  
All the defences have come down now though and John is slowly getting to know a very different Sherlock: an affectionate, tender Sherlock; one who is not all hard edges and cold efficiency; one who feels more than he will ever let on. And when Sherlock sleeps, curled around John, John looks down and thinks he can see an echo of that young man in the graduation gown: the one with the bright eyes and joyful smile. The one who fell in love and had his heart broken piece by piece, first by distance and finally by death.    
  
And this is why John takes his time, because he knows - despite all Sherlock’s protestations - that Sherlock is still hurting; that part of him will always love Victor, will always be waiting for him. He knows that Sherlock still has nightmares and in the dark of night, he will hold him and soothe him and they will both pretend they don’t know what his nightmare was about.    
  
In the end, though, even John cannot hold out forever. He loves Sherlock, is in love with Sherlock, and he cannot maintain his distance any longer. It isn't any particular event that finally obliterates the last of his restraint - in fact, it is a day like any other. There is no case at the moment and Sherlock is slowly running out of ways to entertain himself. He is also getting snappier, testier. When he falls into bed though, he is pliant and tender and he kisses John, holds on to him tightly, as if he is the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.   
  
And for the first time, it is not enough. John wants more, wants to lose himself - drown himself - in Sherlock. His hands move to Sherlock's shirt buttons of their own accord and as soon as he's on the second one, Sherlock pulls away to look at him. After a moment of examination, Sherlock's eyes widen just a fraction and when his lips return to John's, the kiss quickly becomes hungry, desperate. Sherlock tugs at John's T-shirt as John struggles to get the rest of Sherlock's shirt undone and after some wriggling, they are both shirtless.    
  
Sherlock bends his head and presses his mouth to John's collarbone, teeth scraping at skin as his hands skim down to John's hips, pull them tighter together. John lets out a groan and rests his head against Sherlock's, overcome with desire and affection.    
  
"John, I want you," Sherlock breathes and before John can say a word, a warm hand is cupping him through his trousers and it's almost too much.   
  
John kisses Sherlock again, slanting their mouths together and sliding his tongue over Sherlock's. His hands trail from Sherlock's arms to his flat chest and finally come to rest on his writhing hips. He forces himself away from Sherlock's mouth and sits back, eyes darkening with arousal as he takes in the sight of Sherlock: breathless, writhing, shirtless. He instantly directs his hands to Sherlock's waistband and with a bit of manoeuvring, Sherlock is finally naked and John's mouth is watering. He can’t resist and he bends at the waist, licks a wet stripe along Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock bucks at the first touch and his hand twists in what little of John’s hair he can get his fingers around.   
  
“John” he moans, and taking that as encouragement, John licks the head, before sinking down and taking as much of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth as he can manage. Sherlock lets out a deeper, louder moan and John can’t help but echo it with his own as the blood rushes between his legs. He starts bobbing his head, running his tongue over Sherlock’s skin as he takes him in deeper with every movement. Suddenly though, Sherlock is clutching at his shoulder, wriggling free from his mouth and John looks up in bewilderment.   
  
“No,” Sherlock breathes, “John, I - I want you inside me.”   
  
John sits up a little bit, studies Sherlock’s glassy-eyed expression.   
  
“Are you sure?” John asks, skimming his fingers over Sherlock’s thigh.    
  
Even as his body shivers with arousal, Sherlock has enough presence of mind to give John a petulant look.   
  
“Yes.”    
  
As John’s fingers circle higher on his thigh, the petulant look disappears, and Sherlock lets out a low moan.   
  
“John, please.”   
  
John’s not going to argue in the face of Sherlock’s willingness any longer and a moment later, he is fumbling in the bedside table, pushing aside a book and a random assortment of painkillers and other medicinal supplies until he finally extracts the bottle of lubricant that has been sitting, unused, for some time.    
  
Sherlock watches him with a heavy-lidded expression throughout this and as soon as he notices, John has to kiss him again. Sherlock clutches John’s face and kisses him back hungrily, teeth catching on John’s lower lip, as John somehow gets the bottle open, smears the contents across his fingers. As one finger sinks home, Sherlock lets out a moan against his mouth and he pulls away, wide eyes fixing on John’s.    
  
“More,” he growls and it is almost John’s undoing, but he forcibly reminds himself that it has been six years for Sherlock, and adds another finger carefully. Sherlock whines and moves into his touch.   
  
“John, please.”   
  
The sight of Sherlock begging and looking pretty close to falling apart is enough to send what little blood John had left in his brain down between his legs and he can’t wait anymore. Sherlock is nudging him closer with his heel and John has to take several deep breaths to calm down before he can coordinate his body once again. Finally, he sinks home with a gasp and Sherlock drags him forward, smearing their mouths together as he starts to rock against John.    
  
It’s overwhelming. The feel of Sherlock, so hot and tight, and the sight of him, panting, gasping, grasping at whatever part of John he can reach. John knows this isn’t going to take long, is desperately trying to think of anything to prolong this moment, but nothing is helping in the sheer tidal wave of emotion and sensation.    
  
“Sherlock,” he groans out, trying to warn him.   
  
“It’s okay, it’s okay, John. Let it go, I - oh God.”   
  
John has wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, because he’ll be damned if Sherlock isn’t going to follow him just as quickly and in a few short pulls, Sherlock is falling apart, his breath catching in his throat. It is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen and he lets out his own groan moments later and follows Sherlock into oblivion.    
  
They collapse next to each other on the bed and John feels like he might just die  very happy about now. He is sore and exhausted but in an entirely good way and it takes far longer than normal for his breathing to slow to a normal rate. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be coping much better and as he rolls over, tucking his head under John’s chin and sprawling half across his body, he is still twitching. John presses his hand against Sherlock’s head, holds him close and brushes his lips against his forehead.    
  
“I love you,” he murmurs, unable to hold it in, but burying his mouth against Sherlock’s hair as if he can muffle it enough that Sherlock will not hear. Sherlock lets out a long, shaky breath over his chest and locks his fingers with John’s and John almost doesn’t hear the words that are even more muffled than his.   
  
“I love you.”   
  
*****   
  
They are laughing - giggling, really - as they stumble through the door of 221 Baker Street. In all honesty, John is still a little giddy from finally  having  Sherlock the night before (and again this morning), and judging by the amused, affectionate look Sherlock keeps giving him, Sherlock is more than aware. Sherlock slips his coat off and is helping John out of his a moment later, brushing his lips against the back of John’s neck even as he does so.   
  
“You ridiculous man,” he whispers in an affectionate tone and John grins even wider.   
  
“Oh, there you are!”   
  
They both turn to Mrs. Hudson as she bustles out of her flat, giving them a little knowing smile.   
  
“There’s a nice young man waiting for you upstairs, Sherlock.”   
  
John raises an eyebrow in amusement but Sherlock just shrugs.   
  
“Policeman?” Sherlock asks Mrs. Hudson.   
  
“Oh, I don’t know. He didn’t say.”   
  
“So, for all you know, he could be a murderer?” Sherlock points out.   
  
“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims and for a moment, she looks unsure whether to be annoyed at Sherlock, or simply afraid of whoever it is upstairs. “He seemed nice,” she offers and Sherlock gives her a somewhat condescending smile, before turning to John and nodding towards the stairs.   
  
“Let’s see, shall we?”   
  
“You  are mean to the poor woman sometimes,” John says with a smile as they climb the stairs.   
  
“It could very well be a murderer,” Sherlock points out, “And anyway, she knows I don’t mean any harm.”   
  
John just smiles and follows Sherlock as he throws the door to their flat open.   
  
“Terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,” he exclaims in an overly-affable tone that makes John snort with amusement. John steps in behind Sherlock just as the man who had been standing at the fireplace with his back to them turns.   
  
“Hello, Sherlock,” the man says quietly, but John’s attention is drawn to Sherlock, who has gone deathly pale and has completely frozen in place. And then his eyes flick to the other man and he goes still as he takes in auburn hair, blue eyes, and he looks older than in the photo, of course, but there is no way, it’s  not possible -   
  
“Victor,” Sherlock breathes.  
[ ****](http://yalublyutebya.livejournal.com/9013.html)


	12. Chapter 12

John isn’t entirely sure when his life became a soap opera, but that is exactly what it is, because how else can you explain the fact that the love of Sherlock’s life - the  supposedly dead love of Sherlock’s life - is standing in the middle of their living room? No-one has said anything since Sherlock breathed Victor’s name and that was some minutes ago now. John feels like he is intruding, like he shouldn’t be here to witness this reunion, but he can’t bring himself to move. He just keeps looking at Sherlock, who has gone pale, so pale, and who in turn is staring at the man across the room. At Victor Trevor. A secret agent who’s supposed to be dead. Seriously, this storyline could give Eastenders, Coronation Street and Emmerdale all a run for their money. John realises his thoughts have descended into a farce and he clears his throat awkwardly.   
  
The moment breaks and Sherlock’s eyes fly to his and God, he looks so lost.    
  
“I’ll make some tea,” John announces, which has to be the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said in a situation like this, but he says it and then he makes a swift exit to the kitchen. He pulls the door closed behind him and as soon as he is out of sight, he presses his head to the cool door of the fridge and lets out a shaky sigh. If he’s having a minor breakdown, he can’t even begin to imagine what Sherlock is feeling right now. There is still silence from the living room but John soldiers on, fills the kettle and turns it on.   
  
He wouldn’t be human if his thoughts didn’t drift to what this might mean for him and Sherlock. Just last night, he had been closer to Sherlock than anyone in the world and although he had not made a big thing of it, Sherlock’s muffled words had been more than he could ever hope for. It didn’t really matter though, did it? Sherlock had been in love with Victor for most of his adult life and if not for his apparent death - which threw up a lot of questions - Victor would have come home and he and Sherlock would undoubtedly have been together again.    
  
There is finally noise from the next room, a low rumble of a voice - not Sherlock’s, Victor’s - and John stands a little closer to the kettle, hoping the noise will block out the words he doesn’t want to hear (both out of respect for Sherlock’s privacy and out of his own disgusting fear). John is so distracted that he forgets he was boiling the kettle for a reason and he stands there for a long moment, plagued with indecision. The living room has fallen silent again and it’s torture to stand here, not knowing what is happening just the other side of the door. And he simply cannot hide in the kitchen forever.    
  
John slips out the side door, thinks maybe he’ll just check that everything is okay and then he’ll hide away upstairs. As soon as he is close enough to see into the living room, he freezes, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa and Victor is on his knees in front of him, his head buried against Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock has one hand on Victor’s head and even from here, John can see him trembling, can see the way he is fighting the emotion that is threatening to overtake him as he closes his eyes tightly. John’s chest tightens painfully and he can’t even decide whether it is jealousy or sympathy.    
  
He has stood there for too long already and of course Sherlock notices him, turns his head, bright eyes brimming with emotion. He parts his mouth, searches for something to say, but John shakes his head and mouths  it’s fine. John gives him a crooked smile and disappears upstairs before he can change his mind.   
  
*****   
  
When John finally dares to venture downstairs again, he is greeted by silence. As soon as he enters the living room, he sees that Sherlock is alone - and he has not moved an inch from his spot on the sofa. Sherlock’s eyes flick to him as he comes into the room and John heads to the table, flicking mindlessly through the post - a distraction and nothing more.   
  
“He’s gone then?” he asks needlessly.   
  
Sherlock does not answer for a long time and when he does, it is not with the scorn John might have expected in any other situation for such an obvious question.   
  
“I needed time to think.”   
  
John glances at him briefly and turns back to the post.   
  
“Well, it’s understandable. It’s quite a big shock. Back from the dead. Not much that can beat that kind of drama.”   
  
“John, please look at me.”   
  
Sherlock’s heartfelt request surprises him and John turns quickly, taking in the tortured expression in Sherlock’s eyes. His feet carry him forward of their own accord and he lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.   
  
“Sherlock, are you alright?”   
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything but he closes his eyes and then he leans forward, rests his head against John’s stomach, his hands clenched in John’s jumper.    
  
“John," Sherlock gets out, his voice thick with emotion, desperate.   
  
John lays a hand on Sherlock’s hand, holds him close.   
  
“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs.   
  
“It’s not,” Sherlock murmurs, “This is not... I don’t know what to do, John. I don’t  know. It’s too much.”   
  
John pries Sherlock’s fingers from the folds of his jumper and drops to a crouch, holding one of Sherlock’s hands whilst reaching out to touch his face with his free hand.   
  
“No-one expects you to,” he says softly, “This isn’t a case. Logic doesn’t really apply here.”   
  
Sherlock is giving him the most heartbreaking look and he moves into John’s touch, resting his cheek in the palm of John’s hand.    
  
“The important thing here is  you , Sherlock. You and what you want.”   
  
“I don’t know what I want,” Sherlock snaps out, a moment of petulance that passes instantly, before that tortured look settles across his expression again, “I’ve dreamt of what it would be like to have Victor back so many times, but I never thought it would be like this.”   
  
"Sherlock," he starts, and for a minute he doesn't know if he has the courage to say what he wants to,"If you want, if it'll make it easier, I can... go. I'll stay at Harry's or something. Give you some space-"   
  
"No!" Sherlock says desperately, and he's leaning forward to press his face to John's, "I don't want you to go."   
  
Sherlock's lips skim across his cheek and brush over his lips. John knows he should resist because this isn't exactly going to help Sherlock's mental turmoil, but God help him, he needs a bit of reassurance himself right now. He kisses Sherlock, twining his fingers in his hair and holding him close. They share several long, slow kisses, and then come to a natural halt. John breathes out slowly and he can't help but smile as he rests against Sherlock.    
  
“Tell me what to do,” Sherlock breathes, a desperate plea.   
  
John lets out a puff of breath and forces himself back onto his heels, meeting Sherlock’s too-bright gaze.   
  
“I can’t do that. I’m not exactly in a position of objectivity here,” he whispers with a tiny smile, brushing his fingers over Sherlock’s hand, “You’ll see him again, of course.”   
  
“Of course?”   
  
“Unless you’ve already figured out why he’s not dead.”   
  
Sherlock’s mouth falls into a silent  oh , as if he had forgotten the very good reason why Victor should not have popped up in their living room.    
  
“You’ll talk. And then... well, we’ll see.”   
  
Sherlock regards him for a long moment, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes narrowed. It is a look John knows very well.   
  
“Why does it feel like you’re pushing me away?” Sherlock asks in a low voice.   
  
“I’m not, Sherlock, I -  Christ , I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just trying to make this easier on you,” John reasons, running a hand through his hair.   
  
“You think I’m going to just walk out on you because Victor is alive?" Sherlock asks, his voice filling with anger, "Well, thank you for revealing the very high opinion you have of my fidelity.”   
  
This conversation is spiralling out of control, but God help him if John knows how to stop. He jumps to his feet in frustration.   
  
“You were in love with him for - I don’t even know how many years - but a  long bloody time . If you didn’t think he was dead, you would have kept waiting and  this -” he trails off, gesturing between the two of them helplessly.   
  
“Did you even hear me last night?” Sherlock asks.   
  
“I heard you,” John says, softening, “Of course I heard you, but Sherlock -”   
  
Sherlock is shaking his head, hands twisted in his hair.   
  
“I thought you of all people -” he cuts himself off, eyes flashing with anger and something like tears, “Was it all some kind of game to you, John?”   
  
“Now you’re talking rubbish!”   
  
“It must have been entertaining, seeing cold, hard Sherlock at his lowest point. Pretending you cared. I suppose it must have got boring when I wasn’t breaking down every few hours or so.”   
  
“Sherlock -”   
  
“I - I need some air.”   
  
Before John can say anything, Sherlock is out of the door, his footsteps echoing on the stairs. The door to 221b slams shut a moment later and John sinks to his chair, drained, his hand trembling as he runs it over his face.  



	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock doesn’t come home that night and John eventually falls asleep in his armchair, exhausted from waiting, from worrying. He staggers around the kitchen the next morning - still no sign of Sherlock - and lets out a huff of frustration as he goes for the milk and realises they’re out. He climbs the stairs to his bedroom, his gaze lingering on the bed for long seconds - remembering all too well the image of Sherlock underneath him - before he finally forces himself to move. He pulls on the nearest clothes he can find, his hands lingering on Sherlock’s shirt, which still lies on his bedroom floor from the previous night. He forces himself away again, pulling on his jacket as he jogs down the stairs and out into the cool morning air. It is barely past eight - and a Sunday to boot - so Baker Street is still quiet, empty. It doesn’t really help his mood. He rounds the corner and hits a solid barrier, legs giving way, arms grasping, struggling as the cloth covers his mouth. In the moments before the chloroform eases him into unconsciousness, he has time to muse that Moriarty really needs some new tricks.   
  
When he comes round, he is tied to a chair and in front of him there's a table, with a laptop on top of it, but the rest of the room is empty. The lone door opens only moments later and Moriarty strides in, giving him a wide smile.   
  
“Well Johnny boy, so nice to see you again.”   
  
“Wish I could say the same,” John gets out, his eyes lingering on the scar above Moriarty’s cheek.   
  
“Ah yes,” Moriarty purrs, stroking the line, “A little momento from our last meeting. I will have to pay you back for that.”   
  
“Isn’t that what this is?”   
  
“Well, partly. I just couldn’t resist,” he trills, moving closer, dark eyes fixed on John, “It’s just all so  delicious .”   
  
“What’s that?” John asks in a bored tone.   
  
“Sherlock’s moral dilemma, of course,” Moriarty whispers, his breath ghosting over John’s face as he leans close, the joy on his face clear, “Watch this.”   
  
Moriarty spins away and clicks a single button on the laptop, bringing up what looks like a surveillance video from a hotel room. It is night in the video and it takes a moment for the image to come into focus with the low lighting. When it does, John can make out two figures and he has to let out a shaky breath. It is Sherlock and Victor. They are sitting side by side at the end of the large bed in the centre of the room and Victor has one hand over Sherlock’s. John blinks slowly, forces breath into his lungs to counteract the almost visceral reaction to the sight of Sherlock. Sherlock and Victor.    
  
And it gets so much worse, because a moment later Victor leans in and he is kissing Sherlock. A beat later and Sherlock is kissing him back, one hand rising to the back of Victor’s neck. John turns his head away then, wishing that Moriarty could not see the anguish that must be so clear to read on his face. But of course, that was the whole point of Moriarty’s little show and John can hear him laughing, soft and low and menacing. It hurts, despite everything, despite every rational argument he can come up with, despite the fact that he has been preparing himself for the possibility since he laid eyes on Victor yesterday.    
  
“What a nice little love triangle,” Moriarty purrs in amusement and John forces calm into his expression as he raises his head.    
  
“So, what, this is your grand plan now? Show me videos of Sherlock and his - his lover. You’re losing your touch.”   
  
Moriarty just laughs viciously and regards John with malicious amusement.   
  
“This is only the beginning, Johnny. I promised to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes and that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” he says, bending to whisper into John’s ear, “And he’s made it so delightfully  easy .”   
  
*****   
  
John falls asleep at some point and it is only as he comes round that he realises he’s been gassed - and moved. He recognises the burnt shell of the pool instantly and struggles to sit with his hands still tied behind his back. He spots the unconscious figure next to him as soon as he is upright and he swallows hard as Moriarty’s plan starts to become clearer by the moment. Victor Trevor is next to him, hands tied behind his back just as John’s are, and even as John watches, Victor’s eyes flutter and he starts to come around. John sees his lips shape into a surprised question but the words don’t come out as his eyes take in his surroundings in one quick glance before settling on John. In all the drama, John had forgotten Victor’s profession - one he had perfected over at least a decade - but he sees all the indications of Victor’s training now as the other man pushes himself into a sitting position, eyes still scanning the hall.   
  
“Do you know where we are?” Victor asks.   
  
“Camden. Abandoned swimming pool, obviously.”   
  
“I don’t -” Victor cuts himself off, looks at John again, startling blue eyes almost as unsettling as Sherlock’s, “You’re John.”   
  
“Yes,” John replies simply. He doesn’t know what Sherlock has told Victor and well, now really isn’t the time to go into  you kissed the man I love and I wish I could hate you for it but I really can’t because he loved you first.   
  
“Sherlock’s John,” Victor says slowly and John is a little surprised.   
  
“I - Sherlock! Where’s Sherlock? I thought he was with you.”   
  
Victor looks a little surprised at John’s outburst but he shakes his head.   
  
“He left late last night. I thought he’d gone home.”   
  
“No,” John says, biting his lip to prevent questions that really do not need to be addressed here and now.  Did he stay with you? Did he sleep with you?   
  
They both look up as a door opens and John’s stomach sinks as Moriarty walks in with a wide smile.   
  
“Getting friendly, boys? Good!”   
  
Victor eyes the newcomer warily and Moriary smiles.   
  
“So nice to see you in the flesh at last, Victor,” he says, “I’m familiar with your work, of course. You really did cause trouble for some associates of mine out in Siberia.”   
  
Victor says nothing and Moriarty scowls.   
  
“Of course, they were all too happy to bring you down, have you shipped off to the nearest prison for a few months.”   
  
Victor still says nothing and Moriarty snarls like a child being ignored and turns his attention to John.   
  
“It was really too easy after that, to make it seem like he had been killed. After all, Russia’s a big place and their bureaucracy is really quite shockingly bad. And then, it was just a matter of making sure the most important person of all found out -  Sherlock. ”   
  
Moriarty smiles almost serenely and John has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop the queasy feeling in his stomach. This was all just a game. John thinks of Sherlock’s devastation, of his resort to drugs, all of it, and he’s so angry he wants to shout. It was all just part of Moriarty’s grand scheme to destroy Sherlock. And it’s not over yet.   
  
“I didn’t think it could get any better, but you surprised me, Johnny boy. I didn’t think you batted for our team,” he crows with delight, “So now there’s two people Sherlock can’t bear to lose.”   
  
Moriarty pauses for a moment, his face softening into a calm, eerie smile.   
  
“How devastated he’ll be when he finds the bodies.”   
  
“If it’s yours, I’ll be perfectly happy.”   
  
Three heads turn as one to the door at the other end of the hall, to Sherlock, who is standing there with John’s gun raised, both hands wrapped around it. He doesn’t even pause, doesn’t say another word - he pulls the trigger and the hall echoes with the sound of a single gunshot, followed by a low thud. Sherlock moves forward quickly, gun still grasped in his hands as he stands over Moriarty.    
  
John’s eyes are drawn to Moriarty’s body now, to the almost perfect shot to the middle of his forehead, the wide-eyed look of surprise. It’s almost anti-climatic, after everything they’ve been through, but he just thanks God Sherlock didn’t give into the temptation to play Moriarty’s game.    
  
“Not as satisfying as I thought it might be,” Sherlock murmurs and John raises his head, meets Sherlock’s eyes. There is the tiniest hint of amusement there but it disappears an instant later as Sherlock tucks the gun into his belt and crouches, untying John’s bonds before moving to Victor and doing the same.    
  
“Tell me you didn’t come here alone,” John says, eyes flicking to Victor - who is staring at Sherlock in shock - and back to Sherlock.   
  
“I don’t like to make the same mistake twice,” Sherlock admits with a tiny smile and a moment later, the door opens once more and Mycroft strides in, taking in the whole scene with a look of haughty disapproval.   
  
“You might have waited a few minutes more,” Mycroft says to his brother.   
  
“There wasn’t time,” Sherlock replies with a dismissive hand wave, “I knew your men would keep up.”   
  
Mycroft just shakes his head and his gaze flicks from Moriarty’s body to John, and then to Victor.   
  
“Victor,” he acknowledges with a nod.   
  
“Mycroft,” Victor replies quietly, still taking in everything with a faint look of surprise.   
  
“Well, we’d best leave the police to clean up,” Mycroft states and then spins on his heel and leaves.   
  
John is on his feet now and moves to follow Mycroft but Sherlock blocks his path.   
  
“Are you alright?” he asks in a low voice, eyes locking on John’s.   
  
“Fine,” he says, before adding with a half-smile, “I wasn’t strapped to any explosives this time, so it wasn’t so bad.”   
  
Sherlock smiles and then his gaze flicks up, past John’s shoulder to the man behind him and John tenses. Moriarty may be dead, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. They’ve still found themselves in an involuntary love triangle and only Sherlock has the power to fix this mess. Sherlock’s eyes flick back to John’s and John wishes that, just for once, he could read that beautiful mind.  
[  
](http://yalublyutebya.livejournal.com/9679.html)


	14. Chapter 14

It is almost dark when Sherlock gets home and, in all honesty, John hadn’t expected him home at all. John had come home as soon as he could after giving the briefest of statements to the police, slipping past Sherlock unnoticed and fleeing to the safe haven of 221b. Since then he has made three cups of tea - remembering only halfway through that they’re still out of milk and giving up each time - and has been sitting in his chair, feeling just a little bit sorry for himself and determinedly trying not to imagine Sherlock and Victor having  oh-God-you’re-still-alive (again)  sex.   
  
So when Sherlock walks through the door, John is surprised out of what has turned into a full-on self-pitying session. Sherlock looks him up and down, as if he can deduce exactly what John has been doing most of the afternoon, and slips out of his coat, laying it across the arm of the sofa. Neither of them says anything for several long moments and John can see Sherlock hesitating, unsure of what to say. John can’t hold it in anymore though so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.   
  
“I guess you’ll be moving out then?”   
  
Sherlock gives him a bewildered look but doesn’t move from his spot on the other side of the living room.   
  
“Why would I be moving out?”   
  
“I know you like to ignore social convention when it pleases you, but don’t you think it’d be just a bit inappropriate for me, you, and Victor, to live here?!”   
  
Sherlock still looks bewildered and John backtracks.   
  
“Oh, do you want me to move out? Of course, yeah -”   
  
“John.”   
  
“I mean, it’ll be a bit of an arse, finding a new place and all -”   
  
“John.”   
  
John falls silent, eyes tracking Sherlock’s movement as he moves to kneel in front of John’s chair.   
  
“I don’t want anyone to move out.”   
  
John turns that over in his mind for a moment and then comes to a startling conclusion.   
  
“Oh.  Oh.  I mean, I’m flattered, but I - I’m really not into the whole multiple partners thing.”   
  
Sherlock clamps a hand over John's mouth and he’s smiling, trying not to laugh.   
  
“John, shut up.”   
  
John frowns, shifting away from Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock’s expression turns serious.   
  
“John, Victor and I have decided to be friends. Nothing more.”   
  
John can’t help it, he really can’t - he appears to have no control over his emotions, or his mouth, around Sherlock at the moment.   
  
“Was that before or after you kissed him?”   
  
Sherlock gives him a look of surprise and John sighs, slams his fist against the arm of the chair.   
  
“Dammit, sorry. Moriarty showed me. Sorry, I -”   
  
“John,” Sherlock murmurs, resting his hand hesitantly over John’s to get his attention, “Yes, I kissed Victor. And I’m sorry for it. But I think it made everything so much clearer.”   
  
“How’s that?” John asks quietly, trying not to let the warmth of Sherlock’s hand over his affect him.   
  
“You know I’m not exactly one for romance, John,” Sherlock starts and John can’t help his tiny smile, “But when I kissed Victor, all I could think about was you.”   
  
John blinks once, twice, dumbfounded, and Sherlock smiles, brushing his thumb over the back of John’s hand.   
  
“I love you, John,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning in a little closer, “I want you. Only you.”   
  
“But you - Sherlock, you were in love with Victor for years. You waited for him all that time, and now he’s back.”   
  
Sherlock regards him for a long moment, his thumb still brushing over John’s skin, before speaking up.   
  
“I was twenty-two when I met Victor,” he says slowly, “He was the first man I’d ever been with. He was my first love.”   
  
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” John asks quietly and Sherlock smiles, looking up at him from under his eyelashes. It’s a knowingly provocative gesture and John can’t help the rush of blood between his legs.   
  
“I’m not twenty-two anymore.”   
  
“I had noticed.”   
  
“And I’m not the same person I was then. Not even the same person I was when Victor left.”   
  
John feels ridiculous for the surge of hope and affection welling up in his chest with every word Sherlock speaks.   
  
“Neither, unsurprisingly, is Victor.”   
  
Sherlock pauses again, looking to the side with something like a sad smile.   
  
“Part of me will always love Victor, I think, but we’re not the same people we were... and even if we were, there’s one rather large problem.”   
  
“What’s that?” John asks breathlessly and Sherlock turns back to him with a soft smile.   
  
“I’m in love with someone else.”   
  
“Lucky bloke,” John breathes and Sherlock laughs, shifting his whole body forward until he can press his forehead to John’s.   
  
“John,” he whispers, his hand settling at the back of John’s neck.   
  
“Just... shut up, for once,” John gets out, before he tilts his head forward and kisses Sherlock.    
  
The kiss quickly turns desperate, both of them moaning, John twisting his hands in Sherlock’s hair and tugging him closer. It's all adrenaline, need, relief. His kisses move to Sherlock’s neck and he is possessed with the sudden, overwhelming urge to mark that pale skin - even as he is surprised by his own possessiveness. Sherlock arches into his mouth and in one swift movement, John shoves him to the floor and covers Sherlock’s body with his own, his teeth scraping at Sherlock’s jaw.   
  
“John,” Sherlock breathes, hands twisting in John’s jumper, “I thought I’d lost you.”   
  
He doesn’t know if Sherlock means because of Victor or Moriarty but it doesn’t matter, because John is kissing him again, silencing him. Their hips are rocking together of their own accord and Sherlock moans underneath him, hands tugging until he can get his hands on the bare skin of John’s back.    
  
John strips Sherlock, then himself, with hurried, frantic movements and then they are rocking together, Sherlock’s leg hooked around John’s hip.   
  
“Fuck, Sherlock -”   
  
“In the desk drawer.”   
  
John pulls back for a brief second to regard Sherlock with surprise but then he is on his feet, rushing to the desk drawer and opening it to reveal a small tube of lubricant.   
  
“Do I even want to know?”   
  
“Does it matter?” Sherlock asks, propping himself up on his elbows to look at John and John shakes his head. He returns to his previous position and soon pins Sherlock’s wrists to the floor as he works one lubricated finger inside him, mouth sucking hard on the junction between neck and shoulder. Sherlock lets out a low keening noise and John hums in approval, adding another finger.    
  
“John,” Sherlock groans, writhing against him, hands grasping at John helplessly, “John, come on. Please. I need you.”   
  
John lets out his own moan and adds another finger, causing Sherlock to let out a gasp.   
  
“John.”   
  
It is a low whine now and John finally gives in, slipping his fingers free and sliding lubricant over himself. Sherlock grabs at him, pulling him closer and then, John is sinking home and their gazes lock.   
  
“John,” Sherlock whispers, his tone and his expression filled with something like awe.   
  
John closes his eyes, takes a deep breath to calm himself, and then starts to move. He tucks his forearms under Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him close, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s neck.   
  
“I love you.”   
  
“John,” Sherlock moans again, “John. I love you.”   
  
John can’t keep up his controlled rhythm for very long and he flicks his hips, driving himself into Sherlock even as Sherlock meets every thrust, arching into it, breathing a constant stream of  John and  oh God  and  I love you  into John’s ear. And John doesn’t care if it takes a month, a year, a lifetime, he will erase the memory of Victor from Sherlock’s body, and from his heart. He will wipe away every trace, painful or otherwise, and replace it with his own name.   
  
“I love you,” he moans into Sherlock’s skin as Sherlock comes apart underneath him, pulling John over the edge with him. __ [ __](http://theimprobable1.livejournal.com/profile) [ _****_ ](http://theimprobable1.livejournal.com/) __  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full prompt:  
> Sherlock's first and only lover was a secret agent named Victor Trevor. He was sent on a dangerous top secret mission abroad that required him to break contact with everyone he knew, including Sherlock. Sherlock swore to wait for him, even though the mission was expected to take several years, and he tells everyone he's "married to his work" to avoid further questions.
> 
> Then the news comes that Victor was killed. Sherlock is devastated, his whole world crumbles. Fortunately, he has John who helps him to gradually overcome his grief and eventually they become a couple.
> 
> Except Victor didn't actually die, and he comes back...


End file.
